


Pool of Knowledge

by MisMiz (Jaaaaack51)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cliche, Inspired by Poetry, Introspection, M/M, Melancholy, Possibly Pre-Slash, Possibly Unrequited Love, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:44:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6904600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaaaaack51/pseuds/MisMiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ilya finds out that sometimes we regret those things we didn't do most of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pool of Knowledge

POOL OF KNOWLEDGE  

He sat by the open window, surrounded by the sweet scent of jasmine floating in with the night air. That heady perfume was lost on the room’s occupant, however. Everything but the sight beneath his open window was lost on him. The clean pure lines of his partner’s body, the play of moonlight rendering familiar features mysterious and exotic… These were the only beauties that mattered here and now.

  

A few more moments he sat and savored the sight, then the burning grew too strong to ignore. The burning never started where one would suppose. No. This burning always began in his brain, spreading out to stain his cheeks with red before filling his chest, making it hard to breathe, and spreading still further to the tips of his fingers so that he had to clasp his hands together to keep them from shaking. Only then did it spread to his lower regions, hardening his cock and causing his thigh muscles to clench tightly, a symbol of his own frustrated longings.

  

With a muffled oath, the man got to his feet and crossed the room with lithe, rapid steps to the door. Yanking it open, he walked silently down the hall, down the stairs, until he stood at the very gates of Hell. For surely this burning desire could come from nowhere else.

  

He hesitated, ready to turn back, then slowly reached out a hand and pushed open the gate, drawn by the sure knowledge of what lay beyond. The scent of jasmine mingled with the faint chlorine tang from the pool and he took a deep breath, willing himself to calm as he walked the short distance to the pool, stopping at its very edge, enjoying the feel of the cool water on his bare feet.

  

“You are up late, Napoleon.” Ilya kept his face impassive as he gazed down at his partner. A lifetime of discipline kept the burning at an acceptable level. No one would guess to look at him. Not even his partner. Especially not his partner.

  

“We still have at least four hours before dawn.” Napoleon Solo laughed and swam over to the edge of the pool where Ilya stood. Leaning his arms on the edge, he gazed up at his partner, one corner of his mouth curling up in amusement.

  

“You are decadent, Napoleon. Hopelessly so.” Ilya watched as Napoleon licked a droplet of water hovering at the corner of his lips. Ruthlessly he suppressed his reaction to the sight. But just to be safe, he clasped his hands behind his back, pinching the tender flesh of his arm. Using pain to find his focus as he had been taught.

  

“Yes. I suppose I am.” Napoleon agreed. “And since we have the next several days unexpectedly free, I plan to redefine the meaning of the term. Take it to whole new levels, if you will.”

  

“Given the dearth of female companionship here, that could be rather difficult.” Ilya observed, hating the quick flare of jealousy he felt. And hating himself the more for feeling it.

  

“I’m sure someone will turn up.” Napoleon replied. “In fact, I'd say someone just has.” Ilya froze. It was not really the words that did it, but rather the look that accompanied them. A look full of invitation. A look full of promise. A look that Napoleon normally reserved exclusively for beautiful women.

  

Was Napoleon really so desperate that he would proffer an invitation of this kind even to Ilya? Or did Napoleon perhaps harbor hidden desires similiar to his own? Probably it was nothing more than a moment's passing fancy. No matter what the reason, Ilya was not certain he was prepared to deal with the fallout. Forbidden fantasies were much easier than stark realities. At least where one Napoleon Solo was concerned.

  

“Not only decadent, but incorrigible, as well.” Ilya strove to buy himself time to think, slipping into their familiar, comfortable bantering as if he had not seen the look in Napoleon’s eyes just now. A look that was also familiar, but never before directed at him. 

  

“Well, Thrush and Mrs. Rothmeyer would undoubtedly agree with you. Personally, I’ve always thought a bit of self-indulgence was good for the errr… soul.” Napoleon's knowing smile had Ilya's pulse pounding. Half in excitement and half in fear. Which half would prove the stronger? 

  

Ilya shook his head, more to clear it than in answer to Napoleon.

  

“And just who is this Mrs. Rothmeyer? Aside from a woman of obvious discernment?” Ilya tried to lose himself once again in the comfort of their familiar banter, but the night did not lend itself to comfort. It was too hot… too humid… too fragrant… too everything. Most especially too Napoleon.

  

“She was my third grade teacher. A discerning woman, indeed. With a very heavy hand when she thought the occasion warranted.” Napoleon’s warm laughter surrounded him, rich with hidden meanings and conjuring up visions best left alone. Visions from the darkest corners of his mind. Visions in which Napoleon knelt before him in supplication, chest glistening with sweat, dark eyes burning with….

  

No. No burning. He would not be consumed. He would not.

  

“So are you coming in?” Napoleon asked softly, finally breaking the silence when it became apparent that Ilya would not. Or could not.

  

“No. Not tonight.” Ilya shook his head and walked slowly back to his lonely hotel room. It took him a very long time to get to sleep.

  

The following night Ilya lay in bed, resolving to resist the lure of Napoleon. Calling him down to his doom like some siren of old. Ilya did not think Napoleon would care for that analogy, but gender not withstanding, he felt it an apt comparison.

  

Tonight Ilya would be ice to Napoleon’s fire. He would be Mrs. Rothmeyer. Disciplined and discerning. 

  

Except any fool could discern Napoleon Solo’s quality. And the only thing discipline was doing was conjuring up those thoughts of Napoleon on his knees. Begging. 

  

With a groan, Ilya rolled over and buried his head in the pillow, his resolve melting and his head spinning with the scent of the ever-present jasmine and images of Napoleon. 

  

He was halfway to the pool before he knew it.

  

It was the heat. The oppressive heat was sapping his will. Or perhaps Thrush was disseminating a new mind altering drug through the judicious planting of jasmine outside his window. Because if that was not the case, then the only reason he could be standing here at the edge of the pool, that felt more like a steep precipice with every passing moment, was that he was weak. And foolish. Extremely foolish. But not quite foolish enough to get in the water. Not tonight.

  

All the way back to his hotel room, Ilya thought about how easy it was to fall off a precipice. It was not the falling that killed you, however. It was the landing.

  

The third night Ilya told himself that surely Napoleon had found companionship elsewhere by now. Told himself that would be for the best. But still he couldn’t help the relief he felt when he looked out the window and saw Napoleon was alone. He sat there, watching, til Napoleon climbed out of the water, and even then did not go to bed til well after Napoleon had disappeared from sight.

  

The fourth night Ilya did nothing more than glance out of the window before going to join Napoleon at the pool. One night had proven to be the limit of his endurance. Watching through a window was not enough. He needed to be where he could drink in the sight and smell and sound of his partner unimpeded.

  

“I did not think you were such an avid swimmer, Napoleon.” Ilya finally spoke when Napoleon offered no greeting and did not seem disposed to break the silence between them this night. 

  

“I’m not.” 

  

“Then why…” Ilya stopped abruptly. The proper question was not really why but rather what. As in what did Napoleon think he was doing? And what was Ilya going to do? And what would happen next week when they were back in New York and these sweaty, sultry, scented interludes were but a dim memory? 

  

Ilya Kuryakin, so direct, so logical, so scientific, did not know any of these answers. 

  

“It’s hot, Ilya. Or hadn’t you noticed?” Napoleon’s voice, edged with weariness, interrupted his thoughts.

  

“Yes, of course I have noticed, Napoleon. I am not blind.”

  

“Blind? I'm curious. How exactly do you see that it's hot? I thought it was something the average person felt." 

  

"Let me guess," Napoleon continued when Ilya did not respond. "A new super secret toy from UNCLE’s laboratories? A new Thrush weapon that fell into our hands? As CEA, I’m rather hurt that I wasn’t informed.” Amusement, and something else, had replaced the weariness in Napoleon’s voice.

  

“Napoleon…” Ilya could feel the faint flush of red heating his face, and even in the pale moonlight, he was certain Napoleon could also see it. And Ilya needed no UNCLE toys or secret Thrush weapons to see the heat in Napoleon’s eyes. Dark and burning. Just like he’d imagined. 

  

But still, Ilya was not quite ready to play with fire and get burned. All those years of caution… of hiding who he was… what he was… all those questions with no answers… even for Napoleon he could not overcome the sum of his fears. Not tonight.

  

“So are you going to join me?” Napoleon once again asked him that question, the teasing gone from his tone as if it had never been.

  

“No, Napoleon.” This time he did not even bother with the pretense of sleep when he reached the smothering safety of his hotel room. 

  

The next night was the last night. They had received word from Waverly that they were to leave for New York in the morning. Ilya had no more time to think. No more time to decide. Only one last chance to act. 

  

But during the long sleepless hours following the previous night, Ilya had finally distilled all those unanswered questions into one single question with a very simple answer. 

  

What did he want?

  

Napoleon. Always Naopleon.

  

This time he did not even glance out his window before going down to the pool. That was why he had one hand on the gate, poised to enter, before he realized that Napoleon was not alone. That he heard two voices. Napoleon’s voice, and then another one, laughing softly in reply. It was not a voice that he had heard before and yet he recognized it all the same. It was the voice of one who had heeded the siren’s call. The voice of one who was not afraid of fire. The voice of someone who was not Ilya Kuryakin. 

  

Two things ran through Ilya’s mind as he stumbled back to his room. The first was something that he of all people should have realized. That cold can also burn. And what was colder than loneliness and regret?

  

The second was a line from a poem. One that he’d had no patience for when he’d first read it and now understood all too well. 

  

_Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, it might have been._

**Author's Note:**

> My one and only foray into the fandom. Hopefully you enjoyed the story more than poor Ilya!
> 
> The poem I used the line from is Maude Muller by John Greenleaf Whittier


End file.
